


in this golden hour

by bropunzeling



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21830149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling
Summary: June, 1865 - Richard receives Dickie Vane and his sons at Arrandene.
Relationships: David Cyprian/Richard Vane
Comments: 20
Kudos: 89
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	in this golden hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenett/gifts).



> This fic is canon-compliant with the timeline that begins with the Society of Gentlemen series and ends with the Lilywhite Boys books, and contains spoilers for Gilded Cage. Additional discussion is in the end notes.

Arrandene was made for children.

Not in the literal sense, of course. Richard is well aware of the scheming and careful investments and overall self-importance that led the initial commission of this place, and is equally certain that the first Vane to walk through these halls was thinking much more of family importance than family life. But even so, the house was made for children – children running through the halls; children tracking mud under the portraits of dark, imposing Vanes; children imbibing the pleasures of fresh air and sunshine on grounds extending for miles in every direction.

Though perhaps, Richard admits wryly to himself as he welcomes his nephew’s family for another visit, not every child is aware of the unique advantages for mischief and adventure that Arrandene presents. Neville Vane, Dickie’s eldest, appears to only have eyes for the furnishings, when he’s not looking at the floor or stumbling through a greeting, still shy at twelve. Richard is fairly certain he spent his last visit holed up in a drawing room, and the poor lad still looks peaky.

“And here is James,” Dickie says, thrusting forward his other son, who looks to be about six or so and is scowling up at his father. “James, you remember your great-uncle Richard. Say hello.”

The boy mumbles something under his breath that could charitably be called a greeting. When he does look up at Richard, his expression is so mule-headed that it’s all Richard can do not to laugh. The expression reminds him of himself as a boy, full of Vane stubbornness and refusing to yield an inch.

“Hello, James,” Richard says, holding out a hand for James to shake. “Welcome to Arrandene.”

-

After the initial welcome, Richard bows to the day’s atrocious weather by resigning himself to an afternoon indoors and making a retreat to the library. He is still proud of the collection he keeps. Silas’ fingerprints are all over it, from the organizational scheme to a few radical texts hidden among old biographies and books about botany. As he’s gotten older, he’s managed to read a few titles - even finished _Utopia_ for God’s sake, though he only understood around half. He ought to write to Dom about it.

More to the point, he suspects that his nephew won’t find him here. He loves Dickie, truly, but the man has grown more exhausting with age. It was better when he was a child, he thinks as he settles into one of his armchairs. It was much simpler when his nieces and nephews were young and easy to please with attention and affection, when no one thought about houses or titles or inheritances.

Next to the chair, he finds a copy of _The Wealth of Nations_ that’s been left on a side table. There’s a bookmark halfway through – David has always been much more careful with the books than he has.

Thirty pages in, he’s nearly fallen asleep when suddenly, there’s a crash from the other side of his library door. With effort, he hoists himself to his feet and pads over to the door, opening it to find James holding one of the old ceremonial swords that previously hung on the opposite wall, still encased in its decorative wrought-iron ornament.

“Well,” Richard says finally, as James stares at him, a mixture of defiance and guilt written across his face. “A bit heavier than you expected?”

The boy opens his mouth, then closes it.

Richard steps towards him, then stops as James shrinks away, still dragging the sword on the wood like an errant toy. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not angry. Only I don’t think I’ll be able to lift it so we can return it.”

“Oh,” James says.

“Now,” Richard says, looking around. He spies Morton down the hall and waves him down. “Morton, will you help young James here replace this? Thank you.”

Morton does a credible job of allowing James to believe he is helping lift the thing, even faking a slight strain and dramatically staggering under the weight. James, for his part, applies himself to “helping” the footman fully, nodding with satisfaction when the sword is back in its place on the wall.

“Thank you,” Richard tells Morton. James echoes him, giving the man a smart nod and looking deadly serious. The footman nods back, winks at Richard, and goes back to his duties.

Richard turns back to James, who is looking back at the wall of weaponry. “There. All is in its place.”

“Who used these? Sir,” James adds belatedly.

“Oh, grandfathers of yours and mine,” Richard says. “The one you pulled down is almost two hundred years old. It wasn’t for fighting, though. See all the gilt? Just for ceremony, you see.”

“Oh,” James says, a frown crossing his face. “That’s not very exciting.”

Richard is surprised into laughing. “No,” he says. “No, not really. But they are nice to look at, and make us all seem much more intimidating, don’t you think?”

James shakes his head. “I’d rather have a real one. Then I could fight people properly.”

“Ah. Well, the real swords are in their own room. I’d wait until you were a little taller to try and wield one though. They’re a little heavy.”

James glances at him sidelong, a calculating look that reminds him of Harry whenever he tried to get Richard to go along with some ridiculous scheme. “Can I go look at them? I promise not to pick them up.”

Richard chuckles at that, and gestures at the door to the armory at the end of the hall. “They’re just down this way. Would you like me to go with you?”

“Can I go by myself?” The words come out in a rush, and the boy looks almost taken aback by his own daring.

“Of course you can, James. Arrandene is your home as much as it is mine, and you can go anywhere you like. All I ask is that if you find yourself in trouble, you find me, or one of the servants, so we can help you. Can we agree on that?”

James nods firmly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” Richard claps him once on the shoulder. “Go on, then. Let me know what you find.”

At that, James hurtles off, feet sliding on the wooden floors. Richard watches to make sure he finds the door, and then waits another minute, for any crashing sounds. Finally, satisfied that his collection and great-nephew are relatively safe, he returns to his chair, Adam Smith, and soon enough his nap.

-

After supper, in the privacy of Richard’s bedroom, David helps Richard out of his jacket, shaking it by the shoulders. “Your nephew is a bright boy.”

Richard watches him pad around the room, still as nimble as he was forty-odd years ago. “Which one?” he asks.

“The younger one – James. If you’re not careful, you’ll have a real sneak on your hands.” Richard laughs, and David gives him one of his sly smiles, returning to attend to the next of Richard’s layers. “He has already asked me how to walk ‘so quiet,’” he continues, fingers making quick work of the buttons on Richard’s waistcoat. He knows he’s old fashioned, or at least must appear so, but decades later he still finds comfort in the ritual of David undoing buttons and smoothing out creases. He thinks David must think so as well – Lord knows he would stop if he had an objection. It is a good way to end the day, in the privacy of his rooms, David always close at hand.

“Caught you then?” Richard asks.

David snorts, hands stopping on Richard’s shoulders. His palms are warm through the linen of Richard’s shirt. “Of course not. Besides, he was sneaking around first – or trying to, at any rate. He was attempting to investigate your desk.” He pauses, and then adds, smiling slightly, “I made sure he’ll be quieter next time.”

“I’m sure he will,” Richard says, trying to suppress another laugh. “Though I’m not sure letters from our tenants and legal treatises could be all that interesting to a boy.”

“I think he just wanted to see if he could.”

“Ah. So he’s like you then.”

David clearly decides not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he finishes smoothing the linen, stops to push a lock of hair back from Richard’s face. “There,” he says, stepping back quietly.

As he views his handiwork, Richard allows himself to study David’s face. That red hair is now naturally lighter, unlike the powder Richard used to insist upon, and there are lines that crease around his eyes and mouth, but he still has the same steely glint of intelligence in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Richard says.

“It’s for your clothes,” David replies, cheek twitching. “I can’t trust you with them, or we’d be spending hundreds on tailoring.”

Richard scoffs in protest, but David kisses him, quick and light. Then, pulling back slightly, he adds, “Weren’t you telling Dickie at dinner how important it is to economize?”

This time Richard kisses him, chasing the laughter from David’s mouth.

-

The next day the weather is better, and Richard is glad of it. He’s an old man now, a fact he cannot face without grimacing, and too many chill days make his joints ache. The June sunshine seems to heat the parts of himself that now seem to never truly grow warm, even in the height of summer.

James seems to take to the weather as much as Richard, and immediately after breakfast demands to go outside. Neville just as immediately declares that he would much rather spend an afternoon in the library. Dickie, looking pained, makes reference to some correspondence he must attend to.

Seeing a storm cloud brewing over James’ face, Richard says, “I think I would like to spend my morning in the garden. James, will you accompany me?”

The boy beams at him, any hint of fury forgotten.

As soon as they exit into the outdoors, James is off like a shot, careening towards the hedge maze and fountain as fast as he can. For his part, Richard finds a bench where he can monitor his youngest visitor without too much trouble and settles in to bask in the sunlight.

David finds them not long after they go out, settling next to Richard and squinting at the sun. “Good weather,” he says.

“Thank God. I was getting sick of all the rain,” Richard replies, glancing over at where James has found a statue to scale. He suspects the boy has already broken one of the nymphs by the rose garden. He calls to James, “Careful!”

“Yes sir,” James shouts, before turning back to his task of clamoring up the sides of the plinth.

They watch him at it for a few moments, but all the falls he takes are too close to the ground to do any permanent damage, and Richard deems it safe enough for conversation. “He reminds me of Harry, a little. The eyes, I suppose.”

“Built like you though,” David replies. James is tall for his age, and Richard can see it now, another Vane towering over everyone he meets. For the moment, however, he is still small and light and apparently hell-bent on damaging Richard’s statuary.

“That one cost two hundred pounds,” David says, squinting at the smaller bird fountain, which now appears to have a crack in the bowl. “I always did think it was ugly.”

Richard laughs. “Any other features you’d like the boy to ruin?”

“I’ll point them out,” David says, all seriousness. Richard wouldn’t put it past him. “Full of energy, isn’t he? More so than his brother.”

“Neville is a good lad,” Richard says loyally, though he must admit that the boy does seem to have inherited some of his father’s less admirable behaviors. The child had shouted at David once, demanding some slight be remedied, and David had had to teach him a short, painful lesson in how to earn the service of one’s servants. “Just … less active.”

“I suppose,” David replies. “At least James is enjoying it here.” The boy in question is careening from hedge to fountain to hedge again, occasionally shouting for his uncle to view a prize he has found – a stick that looks like a sword with enough imagination, or a handful of rocks, perfectly smooth.

Richard nods in agreement. “Pity it’s just him. Pity more children aren’t here.” Earlier, there had been - his nieces and nephews had come often. But as Richard has grown older, the visits have lessened, further and further apart for shorter lengths of time. It has been years since he has seen the family all together here, the house full to the point of straining.

“There could have been. Under different circumstances,” David says, breaking Richard’s reverie. His voice has taken on a careful quality. Richard glances at him sidelong and finds David’s face to be nearly unreadable. There’s a tenseness in his jaw that Richard knows, though, just as he knows the careful way David is resting his hands on his thighs, artificially relaxed.

“What, if I had them?”

David nods in response, not looking at Richard.

Richard sighs. “Perhaps. But I’ll content myself that Philip’s children have enjoyed themselves here. That’s all an uncle can ask for.”

David doesn’t reply. The silence grows heavy between them, a physical thing.

He has not often had to contemplate what may have been, if he had needed to fulfill his duty in Philip’s stead. Philip and Eustacia had started popping out children so soon after they married that Richard had easily been able to slide into the role of the childless younger brother, forever a bachelor and without any concern for the strength of the family line. He’s still not sure what he would have done, under different circumstances. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a liar, and he wouldn’t have wanted to promise something to a woman that he could not give, even for the Marquessate of Cirencester.

Sometimes, he had held a niece or nephew and wondered what it would be like to have children of his own to come home to. But that life would not have had David in it, and Richard has not been sorry to make that trade, not for a second.

“You know, David,” Richard says, quiet but deliberate, “I do not regret the life we have made. I have not regretted it for forty years. I’m not about to start now.”

David doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks at Richard out of the corner of his eyes. There are far more creases there than there had been forty, thirty, even ten years ago, but he still has a gaze that’s as sharp as a knife. Richard can almost feel it cutting him open, exposing him to David’s scrutiny.

Richard reaches out to touch David’s hand where it sits on his thigh. “David,” he says.

“I know,” David replies, very softly. His fingers twitch under Richard’s own. “I –“ He huffs out a breath, tipping his face back to look at the sky. “Just contemplating hypotheticals, I suppose.”

Richard doesn’t reply to that. Instead, he curls his fingers around David’s, rubbing his thumb along the side of his hand.

“Great-Uncle!” James shouts, interrupting the silence, and he looks over to find him perched next to the ornamental mermaid on the plinth in the center of the fountain. Richard has no idea of how he got there and is certain he doesn’t want to know. “I’m taller than you now!”

“That you are!” Richard calls back. He stands up, wincing slightly at the noise his back makes, and makes his way over to the fountain. James is grubby faced and triumphant, and more precarious than Richard would like. “Now will you come down? I like this fountain, you see, and would prefer you didn’t break it.”

James heaves a sigh, but obligingly scrambles down, soaking his shoes and trousers in the process. As soon as he lands, he grabs Richard’s arm. “Come see what I found by the hedge!”

As he’s tugged along, Richard thinks he can hear David laughing.

-

That evening after supper, the boys long gone to bed, Dickie tries to convince his uncle to join him in conversation and a glass of port. Richard manages to wave him away with a false story of tiredness. In truth, Richard is tired, but only of Dickie’s company. The meal itself had been excruciating, with Dickie constantly making veiled references to all the changes he would bring to Arrandene once Richard was gone. It is hard, sometimes, to reconcile the sweet boy Dickie had been and the grasping man he is now, concerned only with the family name and how soon he and his sons may live in Richard’s home on a permanent basis. If Richard were feeling charitable, he’d attribute it to the pressures of needing an establishment, or perhaps the bitter feelings that sometimes come with being a younger son, always waiting for his turn.

Tonight, though, Richard does not feel very charitable, only tired. He is glad Philip is no longer here to see how his children behave in his absence.

He leaves his library, still wrapped up in his own thoughts, to find a small figure just outside the door.

“James,” Richard says. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“Yes,” the boy says guiltily, tugging at his sleepshirt.

“Then why aren’t you there?”

“’m not tired,” James mumbles. “And Neville snores.”

Richard carefully does not laugh. “Ah. I can see how that makes it difficult to sleep.” James nods seriously. “Well,” Richard continues, pitching his voice low, “if you aren’t tired, I have a few games we could play in the library. We’d need to be quiet though – I don’t think your papa wants you out of bed. Would that be alright with you?”

James nods, eyes wide.

“Very well.” Richard gestures towards the library door and ushers James inside, letting him pick one of the chairs by the fireplace while he searches for the board for draughts.

As he sets up the board, James is staring at something on the mantel. “Who’s that woman?”

Richard follows his gaze and finds the miniature of his mother looking back. They did not have very many portraits of her besides the small oil painting and a few family portraits. No one had thought to paint her after she was sent away to Yorkshire. This is what he has left – her face glancing at him, still young, but sad.

“Great-Uncle?”

Richard startles, and finds his nephew staring at him.

“Oh,” he says carefully. “That was my mother – your great-grandmother.” He returns to setting up the board.

James considers the small painting. “Was she nice?”

Richard pauses, a black piece in his hand. “I don’t know,” he says, placing the piece with a small click. “I believe so. She went away when I was very young.”

With a frown, James turns away from the painting. “My mother went away too,” he says. “I think she would have been nice.”

Richard does not remember the quiet young woman Dickie married very well. He does remember writing the condolence letter when she died of influenza. “Yes,” he says. “I think she would have.” He waits a moment, watching James’ face carefully, before sweeping a hand at the board. “Now, what color do you want?”

James’ eyes light up. “Black,” he says decisively.

They manage to play through two games, James staring fiercely at the board and Richard working hard to cheat in such a way that James won’t notice that his uncle is letting him win. By the close of the second, James has begun to visibly droop, rubbing his eyes and yawning into his fist.

“Alright,” Richard says when James nearly nods off for the second time, “to bed with you. I’ll walk you to your room.”

To his credit, James barely protests, accepting the hand Richard offers as they leave the library and head down the hall. By the time they reach the boys’ bedroom, the child is half-asleep on his feet, stumbling slightly and holding Richard’s hand much tighter.

“Good night, Great-Uncle,” he whispers, voice sleep-hoarse, in front of the door.

“Good night,” Richard replies. 

He waits a moment outside the door after James slips inside. Once the rustling of sheets has subsided, he permits himself to return to the library. When he enters the room, his mother’s portrait looks at him from the mantel. He pours himself a nightcap and toasts it, the liquor warm on his tongue.

-

A glass of brandy and a futile half hour of reading later, he stands in his bedroom in his nightshirt, hoping to convince David to stay awhile longer. When they have company – outsider company, not company like the Ricardians – David prefers to fall back into his old role of gentleman’s gentleman, permitting himself to undress Richard but go no further. Tonight, however, Richard prefers that David not fall back into old patterns at all.

“You can leave later, if you like,” he says, sliding under the bedclothes. “But I would rather that you stayed.”

David puts on an exasperated expression, but the effort is ruined by a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, how am I supposed to say no to that?”

“You’re not,” Richard replies. He pats the mattress next to him. “Just for a while, my dear. I’ve barely seen you these two days.”

“And now you’re being cloying,” David tells him, but he blows out the candle and slides into bed, curling on his side. Richard does the same, so they face each other in the dark.

“Silas wrote to us,” David says _sotto voce_ , one hand lightly skimming Richard’s arm. “He and Dom plan to visit soon, assuming Dom can get out of yet another government posting.”

“Good.” Richard has missed Dom, has missed them both, even accounting for Silas’ entire – self. “It’s been too long.”

“Mm.” David hums, a low sound that buzzes in Richard’s ears and almost reverberates in his chest. Richard moves closer, sheets rustling, until he can feel the warmth of David close to his skin. David shifts to accommodate him, their foreheads resting against one another’s. “Harry wants to visit too – letter arrived yesterday. You know, I think his penmanship has gotten worse.”

“Of course it has,” Richard replies. “Perhaps we can have them all come after Dickie’s gone back to London. A proper Ricardian visit.”

“I’ll write them tomorrow. Ash too.”

“Thank you.” He still does not know what he would do without David running his life, all precision and care, making each small task Richard must do that much easier. David just tells him that he likes the work, that it keeps that mind of his sharp.

Still, every day Richard is aware that he is one lucky bastard to have David here with him, that David has chosen him. Even if what reminds him is just simply going over the mail.

“Have I told you recently,” he says, voice soft, “how lucky I am to have you?”

A rustling noise, and David’s lips buss his cheek. “Sentimental man,” he says, a smile in his voice. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“No,” Richard agrees, resting his hand against David’s own. “But I thought I ought to anyways.”

David breathes a laugh, a huff of air brushing against Richard’s cheek. “Well,” he says as Richard drifts off, “have you considered that I might be lucky too?”

-

Sunday dawns, and Dickie must return to town. “I’m so sorry, Uncle,” he says when he breaks the news, though his voice lacks any semblance of apology. He has a letter in his hand, presumably full of importance that must be dealt with immediately. “You know how it is.”

“Yes, yes,” Richard says, trying not to actively sigh. Neville does not seem to care either way – Silas would have called the lad a milksop, with a few coarser words mixed in, and Richard is inclined to agree – but James appears to be only a few minutes from giving hell to everyone within earshot. The poor boy looks almost distraught. “I understand.”

Dickie makes a noise in his throat, low and irritable. “Neville, James,” he barks. “We must be going back to town.”

Neville follows his father to the door, but the expression on James’ face only grows more mutinous. Richard begins to step towards him, only to find David already there, leaning down to whisper in the boy’s ear. Instead, he follows Dickie outside to the drive, where Neville is already waiting patiently to board the coach.

“Thank you for visiting, Neville,” he says, and the boy looks up, startled.

“I – thank you for your hospitality,” Neville says, glancing at his father for approval.

Dickie ignores him, instead looking towards the house. “James! We must be going!”

At that, James appears from inside the house and slowly walks down the front steps. He looks slightly less mutinous now, which Richard thinks he can attribute to whatever David had told him. When he reaches Richard, he stops, lip trembling slightly. “I can come back, can’t I?”

“Of course,” Richard tells him. “I look forward to it.”

James nods, still slightly tremulous, and follows Neville into the coach.

“Well,” Dickie says, clapping his hands together. “We may yet catch the train at a reasonable hour, unless the bloody thing is delayed.” He gives Richard a perfunctory handshake. “Thank you for hosting, Uncle.”

“Do come back and visit soon,” Richard tells him. From inside the coach, James is pressed against the window of the door, looking at him.

“Yes, of course,” Dickie says, clapping him on the forearm before boarding the coach himself.

Richard waits in front of the house until he sees the coach turn down the drive towards the road. At some point, he is aware of David behind him, though he’s not sure he heard David approach.

“What did you tell him? James, I mean.”

“Oh, nothing you want to know about,” David replies. Richard can practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t turn that boy into a copy of yourself,” Richard says shortly. “I can only deal with one of you.”

David hums, brushes his hand against Richard’s own. “They’ll be back again soon enough.”

“Yes,” Richard replies. There are more clouds than the day before, and he wonders if he can convince David to leave managing their lives until later. There may yet be time for a walk before the rain starts. “Soon, soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the reveal in Gilded Cage that Templeton Lane is James Vane, and had a close relationship with his uncle Richard and his valet. This is set when Richard is 82 and James is 6 (if I've done my timelines correctly). All historical and terminological mishaps are my own.


End file.
